Mischievous
by Cupe
Summary: She still remembers the boy. Spoilers for Roy's parentage, light HughesMustang and brief mention of suicide.


_**(Author's Note: I love Madame Christmas. And humiliating Roy. Written to lots of Panic! At The Disco. Yum.)**_

_**Prompt: Mischievous**_

**Mischievous**

It's days when Colonel Mustang makes the news that Chris finds the strangest.

Not because she didn't expect him to raise as much hell in the real world as he did in her home, but because the hot shot, ambitious soldier that everyone whispered about had once been a petulant, demanding brat, who clung to her skirts around strangers and could mirror her best glare within a week of living with her.

Someone more sentimental might have said she was mourning the loss of his innocence. Christine Mustang was not one of those people.

Whatever innocence Roy had clung to after losing his parents (his father to an accident involving a boat and too many scotches, his mother finding a similarly watery end in the ensuite bathroom with the aid of a bottle of sleeping tablets) hadn't lasted long in Chris's decidedly unchild-friendly apartment. Aside from the various potentially dangerous items laying around, and the clutter that arouse from living alone with no overbearing mother, there were the very unladylike decorations and the various articles of stage clothing that Roy had, of course, gotten into as soon as he realised they were out of bounds. Explaining to a highly curious (and frighteningly precocious) five-year-old what a corset was and why a girl would want to wear one had been exhausting.

And then Roy had found the fluffy handcuffs, and Chris had sworn that if there were any gods lurking in the sky then they were definitely all having a bloody good chortle at her expense.

It seemed she was had only finished working out how to Roy-proof everything unseemly when he had lost interest and was asking his foster-sisters questions that made them laugh and tease the budding Mustang heir. She could only shake her head and smile as she watched him receive his first peck on the cheek from one of her girls (ten years his senior, Ishbalan, found dead just five years later at the hands of a cocky bigot) and blush bright red, drawing another round of good-natured titters.

Before she knew it her little Roy was an awkward teenager, trying to get through school and get a date while his sisters did their best to humiliate him. He held his own pretty well, despite their sometimes downright unfair pranks (like the time Vanessa had put red dye into the shower head so that the water came through looking like blood. Chris hadn't managed to keep a straight face after Roy had let out an incredibly girlish scream and had fled the bathroom, giving them all a good flash of his pale arse.) and was showing promising signs of being a gentleman. And, for all that her girls teased him, she had been rather proud to see Vanessa give a girl a black eye for deliberately leading Roy on.

They were the only girls allowed to make fun of their little brother and that was the way they made sure it stayed. The mischievous streak might run a mile long but their protectiveness for their own ran even longer, something Chris was very proud of. And, true to form, Roy saw off any clients that even her girls couldn't handle.

Chris had decided she rather liked how things worked out, even if she saw less and less of Roy every month, while the tales of his liaisons, both cheeky and professional, grew longer and more elaborate. She was sure she was getting old, now that she couldn't fathom how her little nephew managed to stay at the top of his game and still have time to nurture the seeds of his budding reputation. Surely it was something she herself had perfected not twenty years ago?

That Chris Mustang seemed like a whole different girl now, at the peak of her womanhood, unburdened by anything or anyone...

Madame Christmas snorted and crushed her cigarette in the garish ashtray to her left, looking up as the bell above the door jangled loudly.

"Speak of the devil." Her lips curled in a smirk that was immediately mirrored by her nephew as he slid into one of the seats at the bar, flanked predictably by his Achilles Heel, goofy grin and baby photos already half out of his pocket.

Chris shook her head fondly and headed into the back to get the good brandy. She ought to remind her nephew that it didn't look good for married men to frequent these sort of places, even if their business wasn't with the ladies that worked here, but the owner's foster son. Said son was now smirking at his friend in a way that was both charming and perverted, and that made her wonder if she had been too liberal with his education.

Boys would be boys, and she doubted that Roy Mustang would grow out of this sort of mischief any time soon.


End file.
